


call my name

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: In a world where humans repeat the same day again and again until their soulmate says their name, is there a happy ending for Crowley and Aziraphale?





	call my name

No matter how romantic it sounds, human lives are not days. They do not have a morning, noon, and evening, despite what a certain Sphinx may have said a few centuries ago. Forget everything you think you know and imagine a gramophone. The most expensive, shiny gramophone you can conjure up, its golden sound horn opening out like shy petals in springtime. Now imagine that the needle gently skims the surface of the spinning black record, like a hummingbird hovering before a sweet flower, and that a beautiful piece of music is being played.

Feel the swells in the music, hear the stresses and the way the sound falls away afterwards, listen to the sounds and the silences equally. But mid-phrase, mid-note, the music stops, the record ceases to spin, and skips back to the very beginning. The cycle continues until a suitable trigger is found to ease the music onwards, and perhaps God Herself finds amusement in watching us mortals live the same days over and over. Perhaps She does not. It would not be wise to speculate.

Either way, until one’s soulmate says their name, they are doomed to repeat a certain day in their lives like a song abandoned by a composer, never finding closure.

It is Crowley’s 56th time round. He thinks that he might stop counting after this. Just how unlucky can he be? A person, forced to complete the same menial tasks, carry out the same meaningless conversations, live out the same twenty-four _goddamned _hours like a hamster on a running wheel.

_Bah, soulmates_, he thinks. _Might achieve immortality this way. _Crowley’s heart skips a beat when he hears the door to his shared flat unlatch. Forget that, it skips a couple of beats, like it professionally jumps rope in its spare time. All because of one man who had the misfortune of sharing accommodation with him.

“‘ello,” Crowley says, swivelling to face the door in his office chair.

“Were you expecting me?” The acknowledgement of each other’s names is a silent afterthought, a social creed of sorts to prevent people from meeting their soulmates without realising it. They had written each other’s names out for each other the first time they’d met, as was polite, and Crowley had admired the large, loopy handwriting that spelled out _Aziraphale_ so delicately on the otherwise low-quality notepad. That was five years ago, but the memory still adheres itself to Crowley’s mind like fresh ink on a blank page.

_Of course, _Crowley wants to reply, _I’ve been expecting you for the last 55 times you opened that door at 9:27 in the morning. _But, of course, he doesn’t say that. “Mm,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Not with that calculated welcome,” Aziraphale huffs, dissatisfied with the response. “Are you going to go out looking like a member of the Russian mafia?”

“S’called the KGB,” Crowley sighs, then finds it in himself to return the exasperation, “And this is Gucci!”

“I, for one, couldn’t care less about that brand. Nothing good can come out of something that has a snake as one of its trademark symbols.”

“I’ll have _you _know that there’s nothing you can do to stop me going out like this.”

“Well, don’t blame me if the fashion police pull you over. Just trying to be kind.”

“You wear _tartan_.”

They ignore each other like petty children. Crowley bursts out laughing, and Aziraphale cannot resist following suit. The flat rings with the sounds of pure mirth.

Crowley does not change his outfit despite Aziraphale’s protests and saunters out onto the streets of London with the confidence of someone who would laugh in the face of God. Aziraphale struts along beside him, not sure how he was convinced into going out again just after he got back home. Crowley feels no remorse for roping Aziraphale into going shopping with him.

At least, shopping is what Crowley sells it to Aziraphale as.

It is more of a comfortable meander through the shopping district than a purposeful search for things to buy, and Crowley is internally screaming at how close Aziraphale is. He can barely stop himself from grinning ear to ear.

The peace of their stroll through the shopping centre is disrupted by the sound of yelling as they reach the Versace outlet, and Aziraphale looks at Crowley with worry in his eyes. The few people that are there on the Tuesday morning are running away from something, and he tugs at Crowley’s sleeve to get his attention.

“Should we leave?”

Crowley shakes his head. “You hide. Call the police just in case.” Aziraphale looks at him with several questions burning in his eyes.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Bit of a hard ask.” Crowley flashes Aziraphale a smile, knowing that they probably won’t meet again this time round, but fully assured that he is the only person who can at least stall the forthcoming disaster.

He cannot die today, regardless of what he does, and he figures that he might as well put it to good use. God works in mysterious ways, and he thinks that She probably finds his suffering amusing.

Crowley is the only person who runs against the flow of the people hastening into shops and taking cover, fear in their steps and confusion on their faces. The sound of his boots hitting the floor is crisp and echoes slightly, alone in their movement towards the cause of terror. He does not need to go very far before the shouting becomes clearer. He stops as the source of the voice comes into view.

“I told you, I have a gun! Give me everything that’s in the register!” yells a masked man in front of a store, pointing his weapon at the sales assistant. Crowley notes that the offender is alone. He wonders if he should wait for security, before noting the security guard crumpled on the floor near the outlet. He hopes that the guard is merely unconscious.

Crowley lets his footsteps speak for themselves as he approaches the man, slowly, but surely.

“Sir,” he says, and marvels at how calm his voice is, “Please put the gun down.”

“Shut up!” the man turns, pointing the gun towards him. His hands are shaking, Crowley notices as he continues to walk closer. He puts his hands up as a peace gesture.

_Ten yards away. _His shoes click on the floor. _Seven. Four. Three._

“I’ll shoot!” the man threatens, voice getting louder and shakier, and Crowley makes eye contact with the sales assistant. _Run_, his eyes say to her. _Do it now_.

As the sales assistant makes a break for it, the man whirls around at the sound of panicked footsteps, and Crowley closes the gap between them as he does so. He tackles the man to the ground, and he barely has time to wonder what on earth he is doing before they are wrestling on the floor. Crowley lets his instincts dictate his every move as they grapple, and he tries to get the gun away from the man. He pins the weapon-holding hand to the floor momentarily and tries to knock it away desperately, knowing that the man is far stronger than him and that both his energy and chances decrease as the seconds slip through his fingers.

The trigger to the gun is pulled as Crowley hits it out of the man’s hand, clacking as it comes to rest a few yards away. Crowley’s ears ring.

Behind the blanket of white noise, he can hear the sound of police sirens outside and he sees panic explode in the man’s eyes as he pushes Crowley to the side. Crowley tries to get up, tries to run after him, but finds that he cannot so much as move his upper body. There is something wet running down his arm.

Crowley barely has the time to start screaming in pain before his vision starts to scream. There is a familiar voice near him now, and he sees a blurry tartan bowtie before him.

“Crowley, oh my God, Crowley. You’ll be alright, alright, you hear? Stay with me. Don’t close your eyes.”

Crowley manages a smile. He doesn’t know if it looks hideous or not, but he has to try.

“You said my name.”

It fades to black, record scratch, and Crowley wakes up again with a start, his alarm beeping at six o’clock in the morning. There is a dull ache in his side and a festering wound in his heart, because Aziraphale is not his soulmate, is not the key to let him out of this prison. No matter how many times Aziraphale says his name, he will never win the lottery of fate.

The gramophone plays from the start again.

This loop won’t end no matter how much he wants it to. Crowley might never accept that Aziraphale is not his soulmate. God watches him as he plays the lead in the 57th act of his struggle again, as if the stories, different each time, will finally end happily.

_Love is immortal_, She knows. _But so is pain._

_ _

**Author's Note:**

> this is day 5 of whump-tober: gunpoint (find [here](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187356400823/october-approaches-and-so-does-whumptober-2019)) :D
> 
> art by my lovely friend, the cheese to my macaroni
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)   
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)   



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